One Day In the Light
by Shaposhit
Summary: A theoretical future in which Russia makes a last attempt to bring peace and prosperity to the world...as usual, he's misguided, and a resistance springs up. Partly narrated by Belarus. Pairings are undecided as of April 30 - YOU can vote!
1. In which resistances vives

**One Day in the Light**

**Abstract**: The world is full of suffering and hunger, and Russia has taken it upon himself to fix that. Unfortunately for him, the world doesn't really want to be one with him, and a sprightly resistance takes root in the home of revolution itself - Paris. Set sometime during the 21st century.

(Important note!): It might be hard to tell where this one is going. Just bear with me. It will be a fun ride! Since I haven't focused on any real pairings yet, outside of humor, I'm open to suggestions! USUK is an obvious one, but I'll take votes between USUK and FrUK. Another possible dividing line is Po/Liet, Bela/Liet, and Rus/Liet. I know I have my OTP but you guys should help me decide! I also kind of want Austria with Switzerland, but that's not going to happen. Cuz Switzerland is more neutral than thou.

NoteII: I made up a bunch of shit for this fic, so be forewarned that the rebels will speak in code, which will not be translated. If you know they're speaking code, it should be easy to figure out the meaning. Also, there's a lot of pop culture references to things that I made up, mostly in future chapters, but there will be author's notes about them.

Unfortunately, I also created the initialism CC a while ago for this fic...but I don't remember what it stands for! Something about the Commonwealth? I'll figure it out.

**Genre**: Drama/Humor  
><strong>Pairings<strong>: Doesn't focus on a specific one for now. Some are mentioned, including USUK and the Soviet love triangle.  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Some details may be confusing. Belarus acts as narrator for some chapters, and she swears like a sailor. T+. No sexxes.

-[scene]-

**I: Room 18**

-[The bar at Folies Bergère]-

Rainwater splattered the mirror behind the bar as the bespectacled man removed his raincoat and shook his head like a recently-bathed dog. He smelled about as good. Despite his apparent unhappy condition, his grin was wide, blinding, and eager as he gazed at the bartender.

"I would be grateful if you would actually _not _desecrate this iconic place, _merci bien_," said the bartender, casually flipping his long, tousled blond hair out of his face as he reached out to uncork a bottle of something clear amber and pungent-smelling. Several other shots of things that could be summed by "a bad idea" were added, as well as something that looked like orange juice. "Like some drenched mutt. Hmph!"

"It's just water," the man protested.

"You're just an idiot. Here's your Alabama Slammer."

"Anyway," said the customer, enunciating very clearly. "_How goes business?_"

"_It's shitty,_"replied the bartender, equally carefully, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder. It was an attempt to make sure they were not being watched, but the only thing it succeeded in doing was make the conversation look doubly suspicious.

"Will there be _live music _tonight?"

"_Non_, not in the bar anyway. What's more, we're out of _tea_. Both _breakfast and herbal_."

"Really?" the customer looked surprised, his eyebrows turning downward in disappointment. He drummed his fingers against the countertop anxiously, looking over his shoulder. "I was waiting for someone, but I guess…"

"Shhhh." The bartender leaned forward, rather presumptuously it might have seemed to those who did not know him, and pressed a finger to the other man's lips. He winked one big blue eye - he was naturally endowed with a sparkle that seemed to enchant ladies and gentlemen alike, but the customer seemed unfazed. "You must be from _out-of-town_. I hear the hotel next door has an opening. It's unusual, since it's very popular, but people say _Room 18 _is cursed."

"Ahh. Thanks," said the customer, still looking rather disgruntled.

"Oh, and by the way…while you're staying there, you should try the _pollo alla Milanese_."

"Dude, seriously?" the customer near-shouted, face collapsing in something like despair. He took off his glasses and wiped them angrily on his "I 3 NY" t-shirt. He was dressed casually, in the t-shirt and cargo pants, compared to the other customers who were ready for a night of extravagance and performance at the music hall. One might have called his simplistic dress almost…military. One might have called the bulge under his left knee suspiciously...knife-shaped. One might have called him...Bond. James Bond. Actually, they probably would not have, sincre that was not his name. "This sucks, man. We've got to have better -"

"Shh-shh-shh," repeated the bartender, once more pressing his hand to the other man's mouth. He leaned in close, glaring meaningfully into the other's eyes, despite the courteous grin still plastered to his own face. "Not here. Room 18, remember."

"Yeah," sighed the customer, turning away and throwing his navy blue raincoat on again with a splatter of water on tile. He trudged to the door, head down like a disappointed hound who's master hasn't come home yet, turning back only briefly with a weak smile. "See you later."

The bartender leaned back against the mirror with an echoing sigh, his obligatory grin fading. He wiped his forehead with a napkin as the manager approached.

"How many times do I have to tell you, François? No flirting with the customers!" The manager growled, but his employee only shrugged his bony shoulders. "You've got to listen to your boss!"

"I think, monsieur," said the bartender, the sparkle returning to his eyes, which were downcast towards the well-polished silver buttons on his form-fitting black jacked, "you'll find that _I_ am _your_ boss, in a broader sense than you can imagine."

-[Room 18]-

"Awww, c'mon, France? That's the best you could do?"

"I tried, America. I really did." The bartender flopped onto the mattress, bouncing slightly next to the other man, long blond hair splaying silkily across the thin blue covers. "To make things worse, nobody knows where Austria is now. Well, I imagine he's _in Austria_, but I can't search the whole country. You know how Austria is...he's not as young as he used to be, and sometimes he "forgets" he doesn't own half of Europe, and then he spends days wandering around Slovakia and Hungary until she goes after him with the frying pan and kicks his sorry ass back to Salzburg..."

"_Italy? He's _the long-awaited ally?" America said incredulously, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

"At least he doesn't drink _vodka_."

"Dude, I've got this room covered. CIA for the win! You don't have to speak in code here."

"Ah, but I always speak in code," replied France, winking a big blue eye. "In fact, I'd like to go _down South_ and eat your _hush puppies_."

America groaned and slapped one hand to his forehead. "_Why _do I always end up working with _you_? It could've been anyone else, but no..."

"Ah, _oui_, you're upset because England isn't coming."

"Well, duh," America chortled, sitting up suddenly and scooting out of arm's reach. It seemed even the prospect of failure was not enough to keep his youthful optimism (and gravity-defying hair) down. "I'd rather have England's navy on my side than Italy's…Italian-ness. And you can stop it with the France-ese - when I'm in the room, everybody speaks American."

"That is not all, _oue_? France knows these things, _mon ami_."

"That's not -" America was cut off by a tentative three-pronged knock on the aged oak door. He leapt to his booted feet and eagerly flung the door wide without regard for the possibility of an uninvited guest on the other side. Thankfully, it was only Italy. Though not particularly welcomed, he had been invited, and thus posessed the metaphysical "card" to get past the "bouncer" of fate that governs all doorways in the universe with justness and reason, G-d bless.

"Sorry I'm late, everybody," he chirped, twirling merrily on the spot. "I had to ask Germany if I could come!"

"Ugh," said France. "You're not sleeping with him, are you? Big Brother France is all for fooling around, but I really can't stand that muscle-brained macho-man Aryan archetype you like so much."

"Hey, America!" said Italy, standing on tiptoe to give America a European greeting. America's president, across the Atlantic, got a sudden craving for pasta, and scowled. He was too busy saving the free world to indulge in delicious carbohydrates! "I have no idea what France said, but I hope we're having dinner at this meeting!"

"_Bien sûr_." France stood, taking out a little silver phone to make the necessary call. "We're in Paris, after all."

"He's worse than China about food," America complained, rolling his eyes, though he was betrayed by the sound of his stomach growling. "We're here for business, guys."

"Food first," said the other two in unison, "then business."

**I know it's short...it's something of a prologue to set the tone before Belarus storms in next chapter. Ready? Steady? Go!**


	2. In which you are enlightened

**Moar Belarus! In which Belarus shares her account of what exactly has happened in the fiftyish years between you reading this and her telling you about it...in a lecture at the local children's library.**

**II: Room 203**

[Note: Belarus is narrating. Lots of strong language ahead.]

_Our Peaceable History - Room 203_

_a public library presentation brought to you by Ms. Ivanenko_

_for children ages 6-10_

_[*NOTE: Ms. Ivanenko is unable to attend today, so her sister Ms. Arlovskaya will be substituting]_

Greetings, Children of the State. Today I am here to recount for you our Great Nation's history and...

You know what? Fuck this stupid notecard. I'm not following some uppity script like a sheep-brained, shit-eating, rules-following dumbass! I have more important things to be doing! If only my dear brother was not at that stupid fucking CC conference, I'd complain to him - and he'd listen to me. He always does.

What? You in the front - do I make you uncomfortable?

Yeah? How old are you?

You're eight. Well, you're crying like a baby, so get over yourself or I'll fucking circumsize you!

Look, if you all just shut up and let me talk, I'll let you play with my knife after this stupid speech. Yeah, it's real. It can slice through skin like a knife through butter - wanna see? I bet you wish your nose was smaller, anyway. It's kinda big. Are you Jewish?

Well, you want to know why I'm here? My stupid sister Ukraine is in charge of education now, but she got real sick. Reaaaal sick. I don't know anything about it, I swear. Potassium cyanide? What potassium cyanide? In fact, she's probably just having issues from radiation at Chernobyl again. So I had to take over for today.

You know what? Radiation would explain a lot of things about this family.

Anyway. Here's the stupid fucking story. Keep quiet. God, I hate my life.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

The Social Union of Nations was founded on March 21st, 20-. On that day, the greatest of all days in our honorable history, four nations met at the peaceable conference in Helsinki to discuss the entry of the humble and vulnerable country of Finland into Greater Russia.

Who were the four, you ask? Well, don't ask anything! I already fucking told you to shut the fuck up, so do it or I'll cut your mother's fingers off one by one as you watch in helpless grief!

Obviously, Russia and Finland were there. As Finland's formal protectorate since the First Russo-Nordic War, Sweden was also present...and, damn, four-eyes was not too happy about our agreement.

At that time, Lithuania and I were considered part of Greater Russia, so we were not represented separately at the conference - my dear brother took the honor for us. Ukraine was not yet part of the cool kids' club with us, so she represented herself as an ally. However, she's always a hot mess, so she failed at doing anything...as usual. God, I hate her.

I'll save you the torture of listening to all the stupid diplomatic yadda-yadda that happened (it's in East Russian, anyway, so it sounds fucked up) and give you a summary:

-we wanted Finland. Badly.

-But Finland's husband...erm...ally, Sweden, didn't want to let him go.

-So we threatened to blow shit up.

-Then we got Finland. Yay us!

We also wanted Ukraine. I have no fucking idea why. She didn't want to join us, so we made her back us up and then eventually we made her join us anyway. SERVES YOU RIGHT, BITCH! Yeah, what now, Ukraine? Uh-huh, you know what, you little motherfucker, maybe I'm cold too! Maybe I could do with a little love and warmth and maybe a fucking scarf, you stupid bitch! But no! You always ALWAYS ignore me just because I'm not as BIG as you or Russia! But I have a knife, uh-huh, and all you have are your ridiculous tits and back pain! BIG BROTHER IS MINE!

Ahem. Sorry.

Trivia! Our union was originally going to be the _Peaceful Organization of Russian Nations_, since my brother started the whole thing to end fighting in the world, but the acronym was unfortunate so we changed it.

Official summary included for the history-minded:

**1.** Finland joins Russia, Belarus, and Lithuania in a social union that is to be called the Social Union of Nations. In case you couldn't figure that out.

**2.** The former alliance of Russia, Belarus, and Lithuania as Greater Russia is dissolved in favor the greater governing body of the S.U.N. (see above)

**3.** Sweden recognizes the acceptance of Finland into the S.U.N. and will relinquish any claims to that land.

**4**. The S.U.N. reserves the right to activate land mines planted in Sweden during the Third Russo-Nordic War if Sweden violates the above clause.

**5. **The Ukraine will come to the S.U.N.'s aid if it is attacked by Sweden; entry of The Ukraine into the S.U.N. will be revisited at a later date.

_The S.U.N. Records Committee would like to state that there was no coercion, blackmail, or inebriation involved during the formation of the above agreement. No nation resorted to underhanded measures or alcohol at any point during the meeting, not even Russia. Nobody got drunk or bribed anyone or threatened to "show Sweden how he made Lithuania obey him", nor did anyone exclaim after his fifth glass of vodka that actually Ukraine looked kind of cute in her uniform, even if the buttons did keep popping off._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: Blowing Shit Up<strong>

I think it was originally called "Defending the New Union" or "War With Sweden"...but I like this one better.

Mr. Transparent Closet (a phrase which here means "Sweden") didn't take long to decide he was better than my dear brother. AHAHAHA AHAHA HA HAAAA... AHAHAHA HAHAHAH AHHHH...HAAA. AHAHA. HA.

Hic. Oh shit, I gave myself the hiccups. I'm going to go get a drink of water, and if any of you so much as twitches an eyebrow, you'll be buried under eight feet of snow with a blunt clothes hanger sticking out of your throat and your hands twisted into a knot more screwed up than Lithuania before you can say "overreaction".

...

I'm back. Look happy.

No, Sweden, dear friend...enemy. You do not just try to argue with dearest Russia. You just don't do that if you have half of a brain and an ounce of common sense, since brother is big and strong and manly and completely batshit insane. Runs in the family, folks. But Sweden wanted Finland back. THIS MEANT WAR!

We were all like, "Hide yo kids. Hide yo wife*. Cuz we're blowing this shit to Helsinki!"

*technically, Sweden's wife was safe since Finland was already part of the S.U.N. And, yes, he brought the yappy dog, who perished shortly after moving in with us. Potassium cyanide? What potassium cyanide? I don't know what you're talking about!

How exactly did we blow shit up, you ask? In case you little twerps have forgotten (what _is _my sister teaching you?), some of our land mines from the Third Russo-Nordic War were still in place in Sweden's home. Of course we had kept the emergency detonators! It was all my plan, of course.

I always tell dear Russia: _Never take out land mines in an enemy's territory after a war, even if it says to in the peace agreement._

I also tell him, when he's really drunk: _Remember to take out the land mines they put in our territory._

Sometimes: _Yes, I am Lithuania. Yes, you can touch me there._

He usually sobers after that line, though. Sad face.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: The Petrograd Settlement of 20-<strong>

The place? Petrograd. The date? August 18th, 20-. The drinks? Shaken, not stirred.

I was present this time, although really I was just serving the aforementioned drinks. It's a lot easier just to shake them instead of stir them, honestly - and it makes Russia feel tough when he orders his drinks that way, which is good. I like it when Russia is happy. Very. Much.

The point of the Petrograd Conference was (supposedly) to have Sweden pay for the cost of the war. We wound up working in some mechanical failures, suppressing Polish rebellions, Girl Scout cookies...et cetera. It went like this:

Russia: We want money.

Sweden: No.

Russia: You lost.

Sweden: M-hm.

Russia: You're going to pay for our mobilization and military costs, the equipment replacement, civilian casualties, and heroin habit.

Sweden: Nnnh.

Russia: So give us the fucking money or Finland gets the knife.

Sweden: ...kay. Take all y' want.

And then we bled him dry. Aha! Ahaaa! AHAHAHAAAAAHAaaaahAHAHAAA...

Hic. Oh shit, I did it again. Don't - hic - laugh! If you laugh, I'll - hic - cut out your mother's tongue with a blunt razor and - hic - force-feed it to you slathered with your own tears!

I don't like being laughed at. Hic. See my knife? SEE IT - hic -?

Goddammit, Ukraine! I can't do this stupid job! Where the fuck are you...?

_-to be continued-_

* * *

><p><strong>Little Notes<strong>

Years in dates are given as 20-, indicating that all this takes place at an unspecified time during the 21st century.

_Ivanenko_: I'm giving this as Ukraine's human surname. Human names are generally not used between nations in this fic.

_The Three Nordic-Russian Wars_: fictional conflicts between...well between the Nordics and Russia & Co. in the 50 years before this takes place. Russia has been trying to annex Finland for a while now, and that's why they started. He won the first and the third. He doesn't acknowledge that there was a second. Silly, silly, big brother.

_East Russian:_ since Belarus, Ukraine, and Lithuania (Romania, too) are essentially part of Greater Russia now, and they all speak the same language called Middle Russian. It's basically a mash-up of vocabulary from all their languages using Russian grammar. East Russian is legit Russian, and it's the language all the official documents are in. This makes Ukraine cry. Poor Ukraine. Want a hug?

_Petrograd_: the name given to St. Petersburg during the Bolshevik Revolution (1917); it has been restored after this revolution as well. Mostly just cause it sounds cool.

_Hana-tamago:_ yes, Bela killed him. But he will return...


	3. In which pasta loves really big tanks

**In which roses by other names do not smell as sweet.**

-[Room 208]-

The tiny, faux-wood-paneled room was filled with sighs of contentment and well-fed anthropomorphisms. France reclined lazily, claiming a disproportionate amount of bed space, given his size. Italy perched on the little bedspace the other had left him, while America sat uncomfortably at the third-grade-sized desk.

"Can we get down to business _now?_" the latter complained, utterly fed up with the others' obsession with hour-long meals of various semi-inedible fermented dairy products that bore no resenblance to Kraft cheddar...huh, that was funny. Something about _Kraft _tickled his brain. He'd forgotten something important, but unfortunately, he'd also forgotten what that was.

"Sure," said France.

"Yes! Oh, but Big Brother," Italy said cheerfully, bouncing up and down a little on the bed, "that was such a wonderful meal! The meat was cooked just right..."

"Why, thank you."

"...and the _cheeses! _I've never seen so many in my life!"

"Well, I try."

"I loved the hors d'ourves! The tiny quiches...oh, the crust - it was...sublime..."

"GUYS!" America shouted. "We're not here to talk about food. We're here to...(drumroll)...DEFEAT EVIL!"

He was met with two blank stares.

"But..." France mock-whispered, "...it's _cuisine."_

"Yeah," Italy added, "the most important thing in the entire universe aside from Ger-"

"GUYS!" once again reverberated throughout the (thankfully CIA-soundproofed) room. "Focus."

"Well, first things first," France said. America scowled at his leader-mantle being snatched by the mantle-snatching France, who grinned. "we should delegate. You know - somebody's got to be President, somebody will be Treasurer, and somebody (attractive) will be Secretary."

America frowned down at his big, tanned hands. Something about France's proposal just didn't seem right, even though it was pretty basic. "We're not exactly a fundraising club, France."

"Yeah? So? We still need titles and stuff."

"Can we make them more interesting?" Italy piped up, tilting his head sleepily to one side. "Like...Big Cheese...and Cash Cow...and Sexy Legs..."

"Good idea," America said, smile returning at Italy's ingenuity. Perhaps working with him wouldn't be so bad after all. They would, at the very least, eat well. "Except they should be more heroic. Like Head Honcho, and Superhero Fund Manager, and Chief Paper Shuffler - save the day!"

"I disagree," France butted in lackadaisically, sipping from a glass of hence-nonexistant wine. He just sort of did that kind of thing. "Our titles ought to be romantic and abstract. For example, Director of Spring, Trust Manager, and Je Ne Sais Quoi."

"Whatever we call ourselves," America asserted, flashing his bright whites with a wink and standing to pose heroically, "we're destined to win!"

With that completely non-indicative statement, a very non-indicative thing happened. France spilled his wine. Suddenly, blood-red liquid flowed from the chipped, clear glass to stain the pristine white sheets with foul-smelling beverage, and all three gasped. Italy jumped to his feet, eyes wide, hands over mouth, while France merely looked a little annoyed. Working quickly, France and America stripped the bed and piled the sullied covers beneath it, next to the hooker's corpse and briefcase full of drug money that the previous patron had left.

"What's the matter, Italy?" America asked, concerned, peering into the southerner's wide copper eyes. "You look like you just saw the devil himself."

"It's just..." Italy pulled away, shaking his head as though to clear it. There was a long, nervous pause before he found his voice. "Whenever I watch documentaries on Friday nights when Romano is off partying...in those documentaries, whenever they're showing the scene when the rebels are planning in a smoky, badly-lit room like this one -"

"Hey! This lightbulb is good for the environment!" France protested.

"Well, anyway. When the rebels are planning and somebody mentions something that's obviously doomed to a terrible fate...like the Committee of Public Safety or asassinating Tsar Alexander II...that's the moment Robespierre or whoever spills their wine all over the white tablecloth." Italy took deep, slow breaths to calm himself after the frightening speech, his hands still shaking with aftershocks of his omen-sighting.

However, the others were not impressed.

"Dude," America said, "the guy just had a little too much to drink."

"Seconded!" France added. "Anyway, sullying the sheets usually just means Big Brother just got lucky."

"Moving on," America said in a business-like tone, ignoring the still-shivering Italy. He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat, and smartly tapped a stack of papers into perfect order. France seated himself again, on the now-naked bed, and motioned for sad little Italy to sit on his lap. Italy gladly accepted, and America made a mental note to watch France's hands. "Obviously, I'm going to be the President of our little council-doohicky. It's the most important job, and I'm the awesome-est of all of us, so obviously I should have it."

"The higher they climb, the farther they fall," France noted. "At least I won't be taking the blame if we screw up."

"Secondly," continued America, "I motion that France be under no circumstances allowed to be the Treasurer. He doesn't exactly have the best track record with money."

"Well, _excusez-moi, _monsieur Government Bail-Out!"

"Big Brother," Italy said, "I think America is right. You've been in debt essentially constantly since the 18th century."

"So who's the treasurer?" France shot back. "_You_?"

"Guys, guys, guys...calm down," America said benevolently from his perch as far as away as possible from the other two, which, given the size of the room, was about two feet. "England can be the treasurer when we get ahold of him. Until then, maybe we don't need a treasurer. I mean, we're an underground operation...we don't exactly have a lot of funding to be treasured. All we have is -"

"Love!"

"Pasta!"

"...I was going to say _really big tanks_, but that works too."

"Hey, do you know what?" France interjected. "We need a slogan. And it needs to be three words. Example A: _land and liberty_ failed. Example B: _peace, land, and bread_ succeeded. Example C:_ liberte, egalite, est fraternite_ succeeded. Example D: every kid in your country knows about _life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness_."

"So, ours is _Love, Pasta, and Really Big Tanks?_" America said. "It doesn't sound very revolutionary...but somehow...I like it!"

"So now we won't fail?" Italy inquired hopefully, face brightening as though someone in that (decidedly empty) cranium had switched on a lightswitch. That light was usually on, and really, that was wasting quite a lot of energy since nobody really used Italy's head anyway. Then again, his smile was a dangerous weapon, as Germany had discovered.

"Of course not!" America shouted as France rolled his eyes. "Next thing next. What job can Italy do without screwing up?"

"Well, I have some mafia connections. Romano has more, but since I'm technically in charge of the whole country, I've got some power."

"Good!"

"Hey, d'you know what? All this talk about Italy's terrible finances has got me thinking," said France. "If he can screw up his own economy, surely it's not too big a stretch to screw up Russia's? Can you do that, Italy?"

"Hmmm," said Italy. "I wish I had China's help."

"You can do it!" America belted at the top of his lungs, trying to give Italy an encouraging shoulder pat but managing to knock him to the floor instead. "Oops. I was saying...you know, just give him some faulty/poisoned goods, work the inflation, send in cheaper workers to undermine his employment rate, produce Italian-language TV shows that are more popular than his own..."

"Ah, I wonder how his economy is doing..." France pondered for a moment before his eyes lit up bright blue with the light from the metaphorical lightbulb that had just gone off over his head and was definitely not energy-conserving. "You know what we need?"

"Money?"

"Pasta?"

"Bigger tanks?"

"Tomato sauce?"

"A spy!" France finished. "I'll do it. I'll be the Director of Espionage."

"France...are you sure?" America asked cautiously, trying to be tactful, but then remembering that he had no tact and throwing it to the wind anyway. "You're a little bit loud and a little bit metrosexual, and all in all, really, really obvious."

"Sure! I can do a fake Russian accent and drink vodka and wear non-sparkly clothes with the best of them!"

"Big Brother," Italy interjected, placing a comforting hand on France's well-oiled head. "I think America is right. You're too proud of yourself to go undercover."

"Ah...but we really need a spy..."

"Not a French one," America said bluntly. Thankfully, France's ego was so inflated as to actually cover his entire body like a criticism-proof shield, and he was not upset in the slightest. "We need someone quiet...someone nobody notices...someone...INVISIBLE!"

At that moment, a strange thing happened. The three gathered heard a whispery, cautious voice, and felt a fourth presence, like a conscience or an annoying salesperson, whom you don't want to listen to, but at the same time, can't be rid of. The voice was tentative, but the words it spoke were sure, and all knew that they had found the perfect spy. The three original revolutionaries sat stock-still, transifxed.

"_I think I may be of help."_

And then, less-transfixing...

"_Can I bring Kumajirou? He'll fit right in, and he's used to the cold. I wonder how I'll get him on the plane..."_


End file.
